“And what about Bill Wong?”
“Oh dear.” Agatha actually blushed with embarrassment. “What’s happening to me? I won’t have a friend left if I go on like this.”
“Are you really sure you can cope with cooking for all these people?”
“Definitely. It will be a Christmas dinner to remember.”
EPILOGUE
AGATHA had special invitation cards in red and gold and green printed, asking each recipient to RSVP.
She heaved a sigh of relief when first Roy accepted and then Charles. She had travelled to a turkey farm to choose the largest bird and ordered it to be killed, plucked and hung for several days before delivery.
After studying various recipes for Christmas pudding, she decided it would be safer to buy one. The starter would be simple, smoked salmon wrapped round prawns with a Marie Rose sauce.
The turkey must have all the trimmings—cranberry sauce, sprouts, sweet corn, stuffed mushrooms and gravy. The dining room must be decorated. She must buy really good Christmas crackers. Then should she buy a small present for each guest? Was that going too far? She decided she might as well go the whole hog.
If only the shops weren’t so busy. If only that damned Christmas music would stop belting out over the harassed customers. She felt if she heard another rendering of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” she would scream. The song sounded in her ears like a sneer.
Then there was the Christmas tree which she lugged home, only to find it too tall for the low-beamed ceiling of the dining-room. She sawed the top off and it looked exactly like a Christmas tree with the top sawn off She threw it into the garden and went and bought another and then spent a whole evening decorating it with golden bows and pretty glass balls. She woke during the night to the tinkle of breaking glass and rushed down to the dining-room.
Hodge and Boswell were happily baiting the ornaments with their paws and watching as they dropped to the ground and shattered. She shouted at both of them and the alarmed cats ran up the tree, which keeled over and fell with a crash to the floor.
The next day, Agatha had to go out and buy new ornaments and enlist Doris Simpson’s help in cleaning up the mess the cats had made. Then Agatha began to sense—an unusual sensitivity in her case—that Doris was hurt that she had not been invited to the dinner.
Agatha darted through to her desk, where she had fortunately two spare invitations, and quickly penned in Doris’s and her husband’s names.
“Oh, Doris,” she said. “I am so sorry. I forgot to put these in the post!” And she handed Doris the cards.
Doris’s face lit up with delight. “That’s ever so kind of you. Of course we’ll come.”
Once the tree was redecorated, with green and silver and red chains decorating the rest of the room, Agatha thought the rest of the house looked bare in comparison. Back to the shops for more decorations.
The turkey was delivered. It was too large to go in the fridge, so Agatha hung it outside the back door. It did not cross her mind that if it was too large for the fridge, it might be too large for her oven.
That was a fact she discovered only on the morning of the dinner party.
She could go and buy another smaller one from the supermarket, but this one was free-range and good quality.
Then she remembered there was a large oven in the kitchen in the village hall. She phoned up Harry Blythe, the chairman of the parish council, and he said, yes, she could use it.
She stuffed the bird, which seemed to take an enormous amount of sausage stuffing. Then she covered the breast with strips of streaky bacon. Finally it was done. She put it in the car and drove to the village hall.
The gas taps on the oven were worn with age and she could not gauge the temperature, so she took a guess.
Agatha slammed the oven door shut just as her mobile phone rang. It was Charles. “Oh, Charles,” said Agatha, “I’m so glad you are coming. I thought you’d never speak to me again.”
“How many are going to be there?”
“About thirteen of us.”
“I hope no one’s superstitious. Getting a caterer in?” “I’m doing all the cooking myself.” “Aggie, are you going to microwave thirteen Christmas dinners?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Agatha proudly. “I’ve this great big fresh turkey. It’s so big I had to put it in the oven in the village hall.”
“Look, would you like me to come early and help?”
“Thanks, but I can cope.”
Agatha returned home and set about preparing the starters on her best china. She had caved in and bought the sauce, so she found the preparation no problem at all. She had already cooked the sprouts, thinking she could heat them up in the microwave. She baked the stuffed mushrooms and then set them aside. They could be warmed up as well.
The kitchen was beginning to look a mess, with dirty dishes and pots and pans.
Agatha decided to go upstairs and change. She put on a long red velvet gown with a slit on one side and very high heels. A gold necklace was the finishing touch.
She went back to the kitchen and tied a long apron over her dress. Surely time to sit down and have a drink. She was feeling exhausted.
Agatha poured herself a large gin and tonic. Then she heard the sound of a siren racing through the village. She stiffened and then relaxed. Everyone who might have threatened her was now dead or locked up.
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I just called to make sure you were coping all right.”
“Fine,” said Agatha proudly. “Got everything in hand. The bird was too big for my oven, so I took it up to the oven at the village hall.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Someone just called me and said there was a fire engine at the hall and smoke pouring out of the building.”
“Got to go.”
Agatha rushed out to her car and drove to the village hall. Harry Blythe was standing outside, looking furious.
He hailed her with “You turned the gas jet too high and that bird of yours began to burn up. The smoke alarms went off and I phoned the fire brigade. It’s only smoke, I grant you, but the smoke damage is awful. The walls will all need to be repainted.”
“I’ll get the decorators in,” said Agatha desperately. “What about my bird?”
A fireman emerged from the smoke carrying a roasting pan in his gloved hands. It held a large blackened mound.
Agatha was desperate. She had to stand there and explain herself to the fire chief. She had to mollify Harry Blythe by promising to get decorators in the very next day. Harry began to look almost cheerful. The village hall had been badly in need of redecorating anyway.
“Do you want this?” asked the fireman, holding out the charred turkey.
“No, thank you,” said Agatha bleakly. “Throw the damn thing away.”
She glanced at her watch. Her guests were due to arrive in an hour.
She went to the delicatessen counter at the general stores and bought up all their sliced turkey. Then she hurried back to her cottage.
She opened the door to the sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen. The pan of giblets she’d been cooking to make gravy had boiled dry and the stuff was beginning to smoke.
She opened the back door and threw the whole pot out into the garden.
There came a ring at the doorbell. When Agatha opened it,Charles was standing there. She threw herself into his arms.
“I came early because I thought you’d be making a pig’s breakfast of everything. You never could cook.”
Agatha drew him into the house, babbling about the ruined turkey.
“What a mess!” said Charles, looking around. “Did you plan to serve that sliced turkey the cats are
